


The Cruellest Month

by SpaceWall



Series: Maedhros Remade [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming Out, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Getting Together, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance, Secrets, Side Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Maedhros is in a coma for most of the month of April.  As usual, in April, life starts again, after all the terrible things that have come before, and in spite of the winter that will surely come again. Elladan, Boromir, Denethor, and the Variag Queen learn to live in the world after Sauron.Title taken from TS Eliot’s The Wasteland, which begins:April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.





	1. Elladan

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between Chapter 18 and 20 of Marred But Remade. It won’t make much sense if you’re not there yet.

Elladan knew the second Sauron was defeated. For an elf in general, and an expert on fëar in particular, it was hard to miss. The orcs turned tail, and ran. Several thousand of them. This would be a problem, he knew clinically, for they would either have to go north, where they would cause problems for Imladris and Mithlond, or south, where they might trouble both Gondor and Harad for years to come. But this problem would not be Elladan’s major concern for several hours, for he was about to be plunged into the single greatest trial he had ever faced as a healer. 

Seeing the eagles making their way to Gondor, Elladan relinquished his command in favour of Haldir, and rode like a madman. He arrived just in time to have an unconscious and bloodspattered Maedhros passed into his arms. He was heavy, and Elladan sagged under the weight. Gandalf was carrying one of the hobbits in his arms, the other was standing on his own two feet. The gates of the city were thrown open before them. 

“What happened?” Denethor demanded. He was armed and armoured, and at his hand stood his son, who was not, and Éowyn of Rohan, who wore the soft robes of the houses of healing, and her arm in a sling, yet incongruously carried a blade. 

“I think we won,” Elladan answered, and then, when Maedhros seemed abruptly lighter in his arms, he looked down to discover that he seemed pale as marble, under the blood, and when Elladan peeled back one eyelid, there was no light in him. He did not even stir. “I need a private room. Now!”

They gave him one. The men seemed universally in awe of Maedhros, and they knew that something that could do him such harm must have been formidable indeed. When Elladan mentioned, slyly, that he had been fighting Sauron himself, the reverence only grew. They were happy to give him a private room in the houses of healing themselves, an honour which not even the King of Rohan nor Faramir had received. 

“Is this all you need?” Faramir had asked, when he left Elladan and Maedhros alone. Elladan looked down at his patient. 

“I may be in a healing trance for more than a day. Ask Gandalf if you are concerned for my wellbeing. If any other elf arrives, send them to me. I have much need of the aid. If there were food, water, and a cot here when I rose from my unconscious state, I would be quite grateful.”

Elladan’s father would never have approved of his giving so much of himself to healing. It was dangerous, to say the least. But Elladan’s father was not there, and did not have to always use his own fëa directly with others as Elladan did. When Elladan healed, he gave something of himself to that person. It killed something in him to watch them die anyhow. 

His estimate of a day was understating it. Elladan spent a day in Maedhros’s mind, holding him to the ground with every ounce of strength in his body. Something during the fight with Sauron had broken Maedhros’s psychic bonds. All of them. His mind felt like it was tangled in masses of cut bond-threads. To all the world, he was dead, and yet he clung on to life with a Fëanorion stubbornness. At the end of that day, he only stopped because Gandalf woke him, and for his own safety, forced him to eat and drink, but even the old Maia could not stop Elladan from going back into the trance as Maedhros started fading again. He did this, every day, for almost a week. Haldir returned three days in, and helped as he could. Even though Haldir had little magical ability- his skill was as a tracker. Useful, but not in this instance- Elladan’s mastery of the fëa allowed him to draw on Haldir. Elrohir rode like a wild thing to join them, and it was with his strength that Elladan was finally able to draw them all free, and watch Maedhros wrestle himself into an easy sleep. 

Afterwards, Elladan slept for five days. He needed it. When he woke, Gondor was full of people, and surrounded again by tents. He barely made it to Osgiliath to say farewell to Amnus before he was drawn back to Gondor to bid General Bór and most of his forces farewell- a guard of around a hundred men remained with the temporary ambassador. Then, the party from Lóthlorien arrived, and Elladan found himself swept away. Though they were only two, the dynamic of the city seemed to change around them.

They were greeted with a feast, rather coincidentally, as Frodo had woken not the day before. He and Boromir both seemed so entirely uncomfortable at the idea of a feast being thrown in their honour that Elladan found himself forced to convince Aragorn to reduce the gathering to something more like a gathering of friends and allies. Though there was much revelry in the streets celebrating the survival of the ringbearer and of Gondor’s favourite son, Frodo personally was not subjected to it, and Boromir went out to speak to the people only because he felt up to it. The party instead was thus: the hobbits and the rest of the fellowship, Elladan and Elrohir, Rúmil and Haldir, the royal family of Rohan, Boromir’s family, and the Queen along with Halon, Canadiel, and the rest of Maedhros’s ten. It was, admittedly, an odd group. Only Halon and Gandalf could speak to everybody, and though they did their best, it was difficult. At least, until the dancing started. Elladan had spent enough time with Bilbo to know that every self-respecting hobbit knew some fine dances, and, with some pressuring from Lady Éowyn, Merry took it into his head to try and demonstrate. The other hobbits were all too tired to care, though Pippin joined in for a pair dance before bowing away.

When the hobbits were done, they moved on to mannish music, and those of Gondor and Rohan shuffled around awkwardly. Lady Éowyn and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth were the only western women among them. The Queen put poor Denethor out of his misery quickly enough, by offering her hand, but the rest milled around like sheep. That was always the trouble with men. Elladan engaged in a thirty second staring contest with Elrohir, where they debated which of them was going to ask another male to dance first. Elladan won, but not before Rúmil was in front of him, offering him a hand. 

“I don’t know this song,” he said, in Sindarin. “Can you teach me?”

Elladan, taking this as an invitation to lead, took his hand. “I can. But, if I may ask, why?”

Rúmil shot a look over his shoulder at Boromir, whose injury had rendered him unable to dance with anyone. He was sitting with his cane on his lap as if in self-defence, and pointedly avoiding eye-contact.

“Men,” Elladan said, commiserating.

And that was the dance that changed his life. 

Rúmil was everything he never knew he wanted. Aragorn teased him mercilessly. 

“What happened to being a true follower of Oromë, wedded only to the chase?” Aragorn asked, face like the cat who’d got the cream. 

“Shut up,” Elladan retorted. “I know every embarrassing thing you ever did as a child, and I am not afraid to share them.”

“Arwen already knows all my dirty secrets.”

Elladan found they were not yet too old for him to ruffle Aragorn’s hair into disarray. 

Rúmil had been learning Westron with Boromir, but it was slow going, and, inexplicably, Boromir seemed to have a better tongue for Sindarin than Rúmil did for Westron. When they spoke to each other, as Elladan observed they often did, the language was irrelevant. They knew how to speak with very little that counted as a shared tongue. From what Elladan had observed, it was a friendship built on much shared anxiety. 

“We were both afraid for our brothers,” Rúmil told Elladan, trailing fingers down his chest. “You know what I mean, I think, that feeling of true helplessness while someone you love is in danger.”

A week after they arrived, Elladan found himself alone with Boromir for the first time. He scanned the room twice, ensuring their privacy was complete, and that windows and doors were closed before he said, “Maedhros had a message for you, in case he died.”

Boromir looked down at Maedhros’s sleeping form. “Is he going to die?”

Elladan shrugged. “I have done what I can. But whatever happened in there to sever his bonds, it almost certainly should have killed him. Elves are not meant to live like this. If he lives, that is in his hands now, not mine.”

“I do not really have a frame of reference for what you’re talking about.”

“Imagine being blinded, but also losing your ability to speak to people who you loved.”

Boromir, who had almost met his eyes, looked away again. “That is-”

Elladan leant against the wall. “Horrible. I know. That he is still fighting to live despite it says more about his character than anything else.”

“So, what did he want to say to me?”

“He said you should never be ashamed, and that you deserve more and better than that.”

Boromir said nothing, and it took Elladan far too long to notice that his shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Elladan was so grateful, in a sudden rush, that his family was who they were. It was an incredible gift, to be able to know your kin stood with you, no matter what. He realized, with a regret that shocked him, that he had been taking such things for granted for a very, very long time. 

“Boromir,” Elladan added, after a long silence, “he is right, too. I know it cannot mean much for you that a bunch of elves think so, but-”

“It means more to me than you know,” Boromir corrected. 

Because it seemed like the right thing to say, Elladan said, “if he died, he wanted me to tell Elrohir and our father that I am considering choosing mortality.”

“Have you told them?”

Elladan could feel his face flushing scarlet. “No.”

Boromir carefully met his eyes. “Are you still considering it?”

“Maybe.” Elladan had thought, watching Maedhros walk off to die, that he was certain, mortality was for him. But now the doubts were back, and stronger than ever. 

“If you do that to Rúmil, I will hit you so hard that Elrohir will be feeling it for days.”

Elladan suddenly thought he understood why Boromir and Maedhros were friends, and it was more intimidating than he had realized. 

“Tell you what,” Elladan said, “I will talk to Rúmil, and Elrohir, if you talk to a mortal of your choosing.”

Boromir considered the deal. “Any mortal?”

Elladan was almost certain that meant Boromir had an out for this. “Anybody other than an elf. I think every elf here already knows, save for Legolas, and if you tell him, you are as good as telling Gimli anyhow.”

“I- would Aragorn count?” 

Since Aragorn had, in fact, been raised by elves, he was probably a better choice than anybody else in Gondor. “Yes, he would. In fact, I had a not dissimilar conversation with him only a couple days ago, when he found out I was courting Rúmil.”

Boromir’s expression was unreadable. “What did he say?”

“Oh, revenge for years of Elrohir and I mocking him and Arwen, but, well, I suppose that is probably what I deserve.”

The expression resolved into something like relief. Elladan suppressed a smile. “So, our deal?”

Boromir turned around, and offered his hand for Elladan to shake. “Deal.”


	2. Boromir I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir follows through on his deal with Elladan, to shocking results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, chapter 2

Boromir and Elladan, in a stroke of luck, found Elrohir and Aragorn sparring together, hand to hand. Elrohir was winning. Handily, Boromir thought, sniggering slightly at his own joke. 

“Pick on someone your own age!” Elladan called. Elrohir laughed, which gave Aragorn an opportunity to punch him in the face. Elrohir rolled all the way over, and bounced up as if nothing had happened.

He and Aragorn both turned to give Elladan matching gleeful smiles, but their expressions sobered to match Elladan’s. 

“Is Maedhros-”

Elladan shrugged. “No better, no worse. Aragorn, can I borrow him for a minute? I would offer you Boromir in exchange, but I doubt he would be much of a sparring partner. No offence.” 

“None taken,” Boromir muttered, though something in his chest clenched, and his grip on his cane tightened. It had been a gift from Lady Galadriel, upon his second visit to Lóthlorien, and the elven wood would not break even under his tightest grasp. 

Aragorn waved them away, and leant down to grab his jacket. 

“Shall we take a walk?” He asked Boromir. There was no hint of a threat in his voice. Nothing more than kind suggestion. He thought Boromir would not want to stand surrounded by reminders of the things he could no longer do. Most days, he would have been right. 

“No, thank you. I would value privacy more than fresh air, today, and I do not think anyone will dare to interrupt the king, aside from his brothers.” 

Aragorn grinned. “They would interrupt me doing anything, just to say they had.” His tone was unmistakably fond. 

There was an awkward silence before Boromir said, “I was more that brother than Faramir.”

“Of course, you were the older brother. Faramir is like me- younger, handsome, brilliant-”

Boromir laughed, something of his grey mood lifting. “And I’m like Elladan.”

Then, realizing what he had said, Boromir blanched, quite unwilling to divulge the extent of the ways in which he was like Elladan. They were both attracted to members of their own sex. Brothers, in fact, with Boromir’s only ever flirtation having been with Haldir, and Elladan’s latest was with Rúmil.

Aragorn crossed the room to where dulled practice swords, wooden staffs and shields lined the walls. He picked a sword, after a minute of deliberation, and walked back to press it into Boromir’s free hand. 

“What?” 

Aragorn sat cross-legged on the ground in front of him. “Whatever you are trying to say, you feel afraid. Do not be. I have never seen you afraid in the face of orcs or a balrog or certain death. You have no reason to be afraid now.” 

Boromir looked at the practice sword in his hand. It was a lighter, thinner blade than he would have chosen for himself, but then again, he would always have picked a sword to be wielded with two hands, not one, like this one was. 

“This is scarier, I think,” he confessed, watching Aragorn’s face for signs of understanding. 

Aragorn met his eyes, no fear or resentment in them. Very slowly, he lifted Boromir’s sword by the blade, and placed it against his neck. It was a practice sword, not sharp, but still heavy steel, and a hard blow to the neck might well have done serious damage. What a strange man to be a king. 

“When I was a boy,” Aragorn told him, very slowly, “I was very sure I would never find love, that I would be alone- that people did not love me, that they could never love me. It was because I was an orphan, probably. Trauma, leftover. Retrospectively, I can recognize that. But at the time, I felt very unlovable. Lord Elrond told me that I was never to be afraid of love, because we all found it in the end, in one form or another. The love of our family, and our friends, and romantic love also in many forms, he said. I remember, that was the first time he told me that he was someone’s foster son too, once, though it took me a frankly humiliatingly amount of time to figure out whose. It was also the first time someone ever explained to me the difference between elven and mannish views on what constituted ‘normal’ in terms of sex and marriage.” 

“Oh,” Boromir muttered, shock numbing him, radiating outwards from where it struck his heart. “You know.” 

Aragorn smiled up at him. “You were shocked to learn that Maedhros was married to another ellon. You were angry, but also… something else. Something deeper. I have seen that reaction before, among men from more repressive cultures, when exposed to elves acting openly for the first time. It is not altogether uncommon.” 

Boromir threw the sword across the room. It clattered and shrieked across the floor. His hands shook, and he brought his cane in front of him, grasping it with both hands. 

Aragorn rose up so he was sitting on his feet, folding his hands carefully in his lap. “Do you know, some elves view experiencing attraction to multiple people the same way some men view attraction to people of the same sex? That was one of the most surprising cultural differences I ever noticed. Not necessarily multiple at once, you understand, multiple over the course of a lifetime. They believe that you can only ever even be attracted to one person without being some kind of deviant. One person. Thousand and thousands of years. Can you believe that?” 

Boromir shook his head. “That is ridiculous. No flirtations, no flings, no hope for young widows or widowers?”

Aragorn shrugged. “Probably why it had mostly fallen out of practice by the third age. But it is still believed by some, even in Rivendell. I remember, once there was an incident where someone said something like that to a visiting dignitary from Rohan and his second wife. I have never seen Elrond so angry. I thought he was going to expel the elleth on the spot.” 

“Is there a point to telling me this story?” 

Aragorn shrugged again. “Not really. To be honest, I mostly wanted to make sure you were alright, and I figured- rightly, I think- that distracting you was as good a course as any. How are you doing?” 

Boromir would die for this man, this king. Of that, he was certain. Aragorn was a good man, maybe even a great one. 

“I am not alright yet, but I think I will be, in time.” 

“That is all we can ever ask.” Aragorn pushed himself to his feet, and placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “Can I hug you?”

The Boromir who had gone to Rivendell would never have said yes. The Boromir who came back said, “please do.”

Aragorn wrapped his arms under Boromir’s, so he could help hold him up. His hands pressed flat against Boromir’s back. Boromir suppressed a sob. 

“If anyone says anything to you,” Aragorn muttered, “I can always have their head chopped off.” 

Boromir choked out a laugh. “You would never.” 

“No, but I could. Or I could just have them expelled from the city and sent to work on the reconstruction of Osgiliath for the next thirty years.” He paused for a moment. “Have you told anyone else yet?” 

Boromir shook his head, and one of Aragorn’s hands moved up to rest on his shoulder. “Can I give you a word of advice?” 

“Always, my king.” Boromir could not help himself. 

“Well, you can start by calling me Aragorn. Strider, if you would rather. The last thing I need is my friends to start calling me by some title or another.”

Boromir tried not to give away his confusion. “Are we friends?”

“You almost died in my arms, confessed your deepest secret to me, and now here we are embracing. If we are not friends, then nobody is.” 

This was a good point, and Boromir said as much.

“Anyhow, my advice. Understand that I am saying this as your friend, not as your king. You can tell me ‘no’. I think you should get away from Gondor for a while. Wait until after the coronation, obviously. Even after the wedding, assuming my lady will still have me. Then take six months, a year. Escort the hobbits home, or go see Erebor, or, oh, whatever, go to Harad or Rhûn, or just to Rohan. We will need a hundred ambassadors, it seems, and any position is yours if you want it.”

Boromir never wanted to leave Gondor again, and with his injury, it seemed rather the opposite of what he should do. “Why?”

“Because,” Aragorn told him, finally pulling back from their hug, “you walk on eggshells here, except for around Faramir. With everyone else, I would almost think you were a statue, save for that I know you are not. I think a change of scenery might allow you to live a little.” 

Boromir leant on his cane. “How would I do it? Galadriel seems to think I will never get much better than this, and that likely I shall never be able to ride or walk unaided.”

Aragorn gave him an appraising look. “Let me tell you one more secret about elves that nobody else seems to pick up on. Like all people, they assume everybody else is or should be like them.”

“What do you mean?”

Aragorn grinned. “I mean that elves heal, they do not recover. Baring exceptional circumstances like what happened to Maedhros, elven injuries heal within a week or two, or they never get any better beyond what magic can do. Why, I suspect Galadriel didn’t even give you any stretches or strengthening exercises to do! Elrond is better, having grown up half human, but he forgets too. Fortunately for you, I am as human as you are. And, of course, I know one more thing that you do not.”

Boromir found a smile tugging on his lips too. “And what is that?”

“Elvish tradition is to ride without saddles, in times of peace. That, certainly, will be beyond your ability, but with a specially designed saddle-”

Boromir laughed, unexpected glee filling his heart. Aragorn offered him a hand. 

“Here, let me help you sit on the ground. I have some ideas of the sorts of things that can help with this, but I will need to personalize it for you.”

Aragorn, Boromir thought, was a better king, a kinder man, than Gondor could have dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARAGORN IS A GOOD BOY AND A SWEET FRIEND  
> i feel very strongly about this


	3. Boromir II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir finds something he never could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roooommmannnccccceee. Also a mental image you and Boromir both didn’t want.

In the days following his conversation with Aragorn, Boromir was often to be found in the private sparring room. Because of its location, the room was essentially only open to the royal family (and, since the royal family was currently only Aragorn, the steward’s family as well), and visiting royal dignitaries. This meant that aside from elves and periodically Gimli and Aragorn, Boromir was the only person ever there. Faramir, Éomer and, presumably, the Variag Queen all prefered to train with their men, Éowyn and Théoden were both still injured, and Boromir’s father was not technically permitted to use any weapon unsupervised. At least, this was what Boromir had thought. All of these assumptions were shattered when he walked in, preparing to practice his exercises, and was instead confronted by the Variag Queen, in her full armour, pinning Boromir’s father, who was mostly naked, to the ground. 

The noise of genuine discomfort Boromir made at the sight was too much to suppress. He fled the scene as fast as he could, which was not, unfortunately for him, very fast. His father caught up to him before he even rounded the corner, having pulled on a chainmail tunic and no other clothes. Boromir was deeply aware that his entire body had flushed red, and was getting redder by the second.

“Boromir,” his father began, out of breath. “You must know that-”

“I am exclusively attracted to other men,” Boromir’s traitor tongue said, desperately looking for something, anything else, to talk about. And then belatedly, “I really must go, I have something I have to talk to Aragorn about.”

He tried to run- or, well, hobble quickly, but his father reached out and caught him by one arm. He was strong for an old man, which was something Boromir never, ever wanted to think about again. 

“Boromir,” he repeated, in his commander’s voice, “explain yourself.”

“You explain yourself,” Boromir retorted, surprised by how thrilling it was. 

“This is unacceptable,” Denethor began, “the shame-”

That was about the point that the Variag Queen caught up with them both and, to the equal shock of Boromir and his father, slapped Denethor full across the face. She shouted something at him in her own tongue, and then moved as if she was going to slap him again. That was when Halon, the translator who everyone was certain had once been a spy in Minas Tirith, took the initiative to make an equally timely appearance. Boromir considered the odds that this was all a terrible dream, and decided it likely. The worst part, in some ways, was that Halon was distractingly handsome. He said something to the Variag Queen in her own tongue before turning to Boromir. 

“May I escort you to your meeting with his majesty, my lord?” He offered his arm for support

There was no meeting, that had been an absolute fabrication, and he and Halon both knew it. Thus, when Boromir said yes and Halon led him away, they instead ended up on a private balcony overlooking most of the city. It was not the nicest balcony, buried under an overhang which meant it almost never got direct sunlight, with boxes and a couple rickety chairs the only furniture. But the view made anything worth it. Boromir took a seat, carefully, on the least rickety chair, which impeded his view, but favoured his longevity. He had seen the view a hundred times, sunlight kissing the white city, making it shine as if new.

“This is beautiful,” Halon told him, leaning over the edge in a way that made Boromir want to grab him by the scruff of his neck. “I have never seen the city from this angle before.”

“Most people have not. This is where I used to hide when I was upset as a boy.”

His father and Faramir both knew where to find him, if they wanted to. Right now, he had no reason to think that either one would. 

“Are you upset now?”

Boromir folded his hands on his lap. “How much did you overhear?”

Halon threw a smile over his shoulder at Boromir. “Oh, enough. You can take the man out of his spying job, but you cannot take the spy out of the man.”

“So, you are a spy then.” Everyone knew it, but nobody had the courage to ask. 

Halon turned fully to face him, taking a seat on the ground at the edge of the balcony. “I was, and you are calann.”

“What?”

Halon shrugged. “I honestly have no idea what the Westron would be, or if there even is a direct translation. It means, ‘one who will not enter a relationship to produce children’, more or less. So, women who love other women, or lifelong bachelors, or those who are infertile. It is a broad umbrella term, basically, deriving from the name of a somewhat notable dynasty who never managed to have a biological child between the six of them. There are sub-terms, but I would not presume much further than what you have said.”

Boromir clenched and unclenched his fingers. “I suppose so, yes.”

Halon leant over and placed a hand on his knee. “Well, I am too, so there we have it. What a fine pair we make.”

Boromir stared at him for a long second. It seemed inconceivable that someone with Halon’s- well, everything- would not be spending his time with as many women as possible. But then, some might once have said the same about Boromir. 

“Why are you helping me?” Boromir asked him, when the silence had stretched so long it was uncomfortable. 

Halon pulled his hand back, quick as if he had been burned. It took him a long second to respond. “I was one of Maedhros’s Ten.” Boromir nodded in acknowledgment. By now, everyone in Gondor knew the story of the brave men and woman who had gone into Minas Morgul with their Commander. “Well, after the dust cleared, those of us who were left, we eight mortals, came together and we made a pact. That was when it was widely thought that King Maedhros and Lord Elladan would die, and so we made our agreement thinking that they would. We decided to live our lives in a way to try and realize the world Maedhros spoke of. That is why Canadiel and I are speaking for the alliance. That is why Tys is going to petition my king for support on Amnus’s behalf. Maedhros was brave, and more than that, he was kind. He never looked down on any of us, or treated us as different. I want to make other people feel the way Maedhros made me feel that day. Like they matter. Like we mattered. Like I matter.”

Boromir reached out to Halon, offering him a hand. “He made me feel that way too. He was the first person who ever told me he was calann, though obviously he did not use that exact word.”

Halon entwined their fingers, his darker hand with his swordsman’s callouses warm against Boromir’s. He was very, very beautiful, Boromir thought again, his tight curly hair cut short, and his deep eyes meeting Boromir’s with something like passion. Oh, that was new. 

“What will you do if he never wakes up?” Halon asked, softly. 

This was something Boromir had given much thought, over the past few days, ever since Aragorn had told him to get out of Gondor and see more of the world. 

“He has a brother- Maglor. If I had died, I believe Maedhros would have walked through Mordor and back to look after Faramir for me. It only seems right that I do my best to return the favour. I mean, I have none of Maedhros’s strength nor his brilliance, but I would do my best, and that is all I can do.”

Halon nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we should make you an honorary member of the Ten. Elladan never comes to our meetings anyways.”

Boromir looked down at their interlocked fingers. “I could talk to him about that, if you want. I think he spends more time sitting around worrying than is good for him, and the rest of it flirting with Rúmil like his life depends on it. And then you would not need to replace him.” 

“Maybe I want you there,” Halon murmured, softly. He leant up, towards Boromir. Boromir reached his other hand down to touch Halon’s cheek. Halon surged up, closing the distance between them with a kiss. 

It was extraordinary in how normal it felt. The few women Boromir had ever kissed had always been pretty, but he had never come away with a desire for more, and as for Haldir, each of them had found the danger, the exoticism, the close brushes with death, as much of a draw as the kiss itself. Boromir felt like he could kiss Halon every day, and still enjoy it. In fact, Boromir intended to test that theory, if Halon would let him.

And so things continued. The next three days, until Maedhros blessedly, unexpectedly, woke, were as awkward as any three days Boromir had ever lived. He and his father and the Queen all avoided each other like the others were plague-ridden. Faramir, confused and a little hurt, had no idea what was happening, and neither his father nor his brother would tell him. Halon was the saving grace of all of it. He understood Boromir’s fear, and helped him see the humour in the situation. 

“You know the Queen isn’t mad at you?” Halon asked one evening, when the two of them were having a private- romantic, Boromir hoped- dinner in Boromir’s quarters.

“What do you mean?” Boromir asked, pouring himself a second glass of wine.

“She is furious with your father, certainly, but not with you. I walked in this morning to find her telling Canadiel that she thinks Denethor is acting is dishonourably as a parent, and that she would never act towards either of her children the way he has with you and your brother. And then she turned around and told me that if I ever saw him do anything like that again, I had standing orders from her to slap him. Not that I take my orders from her, mind, but I appreciated the sentiment.” 

Boromir shook his head. “I may never understand the two of them. What a strange match.” 

Halon raised an eyebrow. “I think I understand it. The Queen will be able to keep him in check, tell him what to do.”

“That is precisely the part I do not understand,” Boromir told him. He took a sip of his wine. 

“Some men,” Halon whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close, “like being told what to do.” 

Boromir spewed red wine all over Halon’s green tunic. Halon laughed at him. 

“In all seriousness, I do think I know what they see in each other. They have a great deal in common. The responsibility, being widowed young, raising two children alone. You and the First-heir of the Variags would be about the same age. And I suspect from her perspective, the Queen may feel that your father is a good match. He has two sons, one of whom is actively courting women, which means his heirs are sorted, he is not a Variag, which means he could not usurp her children in inheriting the throne, and marrying him cements the alliance. Particularly if Faramir and Éowyn marry. Now, my government will be up in arms since that gives them no ties to anyone, particularly since the Easterlings are making their allegiances with dwarves. But I bet you near-any sum that they’ll look to have Éomer marry a princess from northern Harad.” 

It was very neat. Almost too neat. “Well, I suppose there’s always me.” 

Halon gave him a critical look. “Would you want to marry a princess?” 

“No, but I might marry someone from northern Harad.”

Halon blushed, right at the tips of his ears. “That is rather soon,” he muttered. 

It was. “Not for at least a couple years. Aragorn wants me to go travelling, remember?” 

“I think I would miss you, if you left for a couple years.” 

It was Boromir’s turn to blush. “Maybe you could come with me. Or maybe we could choose somewhere to go together.” 

Halon folded his hands in his lap. “Maybe. Is it as cold as they say in the north?” 

“Colder than here, but beautiful too. The Misty Mountains, Rivendell. They’re extraordinary sights.” 

“I grew up in sight of mountains.” 

Boromir knew which mountains Halon was referring to. “Not like these. These are something else.”

Halon leant in conspiratorially. “Well, perhaps you shall have to prove it.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Boromir went to bed that night alone but smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and all the elves are in the corner being a little excited and very nosy about this development. (it’s a good thing Halon has his own relationship with Maedhros, or he’d have to be very afraid.)


	4. Denethor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war Denethor thought was going to kill him hasn’t. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set right at the beginning of Elladan’s chapter and precedes both of Boromir’s.

Denethor and Faramir sat around the table with their counterparts from the nations of Harad, Khand, and Rhûn. Haldir of Lóthlorien was there also, but like all those the elves in Minas Tirith, he was only half paying attention. There was sorrowful magic in the air, so intense that Imrahil had taken himself out of the city on patrol, and Thorongil- King Elessar, it was King Elessar now- was only to be found at work in the houses of healing. Thus, Denethor and Faramir’s unfortunate turn at diplomacy. Technically, Faramir was in charge, but practically, he kept rubbing at his forehead as though doing so often enough would make his headache go away. Denethor worried for him, but their relationship was so fragile that a simple misstep could spell disaster.

“My name is Halon,” the fairest of the Haradrim said, from where he stood behind his commander. “the Generals Bór and Amnus ask to be addressed accordingly, while Her Majesty the Queen of the Variags ask the you call her simply ‘the Queen’ or ‘Her Majesty’. They greet you joyfully.”

Faramir looked down at his notes, and said something in their tongue, though the end of his sentence turned up like it was a question. The Queen’s mouth curled up at the edge, and she reached across the table for Faramir’s papers. Scanning them, she spoke a second later. 

“Greetings.”

Halon said something to her in her own language, and pointed at the page. She looked back up and said, “Hello.”

She looked right at Denethor as she said it, eyes like midnight boring into him. If he had to guess, he would say they were roughly of an age, she perhaps a year or three younger. There was grey towards her temples, and the years had given her face lines of both laughter and grief. They watched each other through the meeting, speaking with Halon’s voice in one another’s tongues. He had heard that she had been on the battlefield herself, a warrior queen, like that girl of Faramir’s. The facts seemed to bear that out, for she did carry herself as a warrior, and when she stood at the end of the meeting, it was the confident grace of one who had faced death, and no longer feared it as they once had. 

They walked in the same direction away from the meeting, and though Denethor’s strides were longer, he found himself slowing to keep pace with her, watching scarlet robes slide across the floor out of the corner of his eye. As they reached the end of the corridor, she stopped, seeming to weigh her choice carefully. 

“Denethor.”

“Your majesty.” It irked him not to know her name. He should have. That was the what his rank deserved. Or, his former rank. He was not steward anymore. Soon, no one would be, if Aragorn agreed upon that course of action. Faramir would be the last of their line. Somehow, more than anything, Denethor was glad. 

She said something in her own tongue, and walked away. Though Denethor had been intending to go the same way, towards his own chambers, he turned around instead and walked straight for the library. 

There were no books on the Variags of Khand. Faramir, who Denethor found asleep with his head on the desk, seemed to have been writing out word-for-word translations from Westron to Sindarin to Southron by hand. He had been working overmuch for one who was only recently recovered from an almost deadly wound, but there was no better choice. With King Maedhros and the ringbearer unconscious, King Elessar and the Sons of Elrond dedicated to healing them, and Théoden still mostly bedridden, there were only so many people to both govern and keep the alliance in check. Everyone was working enough for three people, for each knew how quickly it could all fall apart. The victory did not yet seem real. Faramir, who had found himself suddenly appointed steward on top of everything else, was working harder than the rest of them combined. All at once, he had become a general and lord while remaining also a scholar and a friend to the people. Denethor fetched him a blanket, and slid his coat as a pillow under Faramir’s head. Then he stole all his research. 

Denethor had been an airy-headed boy once, though his focus had been more on lost historical discoveries than anything else. He had not Faramir’s genius, but his skill and experience with languages was not nothing. It took him only an hour of scanning Faramir’s sprawling notes before he went to get the Quenya-Westron dictionaries off the shelves, and added an extra column for that tongue. He stared at his work for a long moment. 

Faramir, still rubbing his forehead with his palm, came up behind him, and looked over his shoulder. “Not a bad guess. Umbar is a Quenya word, even if the meaning is unrelated.”

Denethor shook his head. “It is more than that. There was Númenórean colonization in Harad. They spoke Quenya. I think it may have been adopted into parts of the local tongue. They share more commonalities with it than Sindarin, in any case. Not that it helps us much, but it is interesting.”

“Maybe there are similarities with Nandorin as well, from the Easterling influence. We have books on that somewhere. I could-”

“Faramir, go to bed. The city will not fall down if you get some sleep.”

Faramir groaned. “There is more still to do.”

Denethor stood. “Nothing that will not keep until tomorrow. Now, will you go peacefully, or do I need to carry you?”

“You could not carry me,” Faramir muttered, but he wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, and allowed Denethor to lead him to his room anyhow. They were almost there when they crossed paths with the Queen again. This time, Halon was with her. She looked both of them up and down before speaking. 

Halon laughed at her words, translating, “cross a thousand miles, idiot children who do not sleep are the same in every part of the world.”

Denethor laughed. “Does her majesty have children?”

Halon turned the question back to the Queen, then repeated her answer. “Two. A son and a daughter, back in Khand, as well as a young niece who will now be in her care. Before you ask, she has no husband. He is many years dead.”

Not a day passed when Denethor did not think of his sweet Finduilas, many years dead, and feel his heart tear anew. He and Faramir exchanged a look. The boy had such a look of her about him, her smile, her gentle touch. Denethor had not been as good a parent to him as she would have been. Not even to Boromir had he been as generous or kind as he should have been, and it had almost cost him both of them. It was in the middle of this spiralling thought that the Queen reached out and touched him on the arm. 

“Peace,” she said, in Sindarin. She clearly did not speak the tongue, but the single word was more than intelligible. 

It meant more to him than he had words for, in any tongue, that she understood. “Thank you, your majesty.”

When he had led Faramir to bed, he returned to the library to find her there. She was copying, in what seemed to be some strange form of symbols, Faramir’s translation charts. The symbols were like nothing he had ever seen. It took him an embarrassingly long time to understand why. 

“You have your own system of writing?”

She turned around, and gave him a confused look. Of course she did not understand. He pointed at the characters on Faramir’s page, said, “Tengwar,” and then pointed at her own work, stopping just short of smudging the ink.

She made a noise of understanding, and pointed at her own page. “Khandi.” She pointed at the Southron column on Faramir’s page. “Haradic.” Then to the Quenya column. “Quendi” 

Denethor pulled a chair up beside her, and added the words at the top of each column. Harad and Khand spoke the same tongue but wrote differently. Fascinating. He wondered if that influence was from Gondor or Númenor. They sat together for more than an hour, her quill making quick lines on the parchment, Denethor watching her work and taking notes. Some characters seemed to have direct translations. Others did not. She seemed to have difficulty with the Quenya in particular, adding strange symbols under and over her letters in what must have been an attempt to clarify pronunciation. The Southron flowed quickly from her quill, in the easy hand of one who already knew the words and their meanings. It was like decrypting a cypher, and the intellectual challenge intrigued him. As she finished her last page and stood, Denethor pushed his work in front of her. She paused, and then lent down and wrote all the characters in alphabetical order, circling what must have been the vowels. 

“Thank you.” 

She looked down at her own work, leafing from page to page before responding, “You are welcome.”

She left him sitting at the table all alone, and he looked down at her spidery writing, and could not help but laugh. Denethor was old enough to have grandchildren, had been a widower for longer than many people lived, and there he was, sitting lovestruck like a boy a third- a quarter- his age. It was the best he’d felt in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, that wasn’t as bad as you expected! There’s a matching chapter from the opposite POV, which will be (hopefully) up some time in the next couple of weeks. But first, Chapter 25 of Marred! Or bust!


	5. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kalya of Khand, Queen, finds something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t ask for it, I’m giving it anyways.

Kalya watched Denethor the steward with a critical eye. He was an enemy. He had always been an enemy, and yet she could not find it in her heart to hate him. They said he was mad. Likely, he was mad. But as she watched, his eyes were more often than not on his son. He seemed concerned for the boy, and with good reason. The war had almost been the death of Lord Faramir, and his father almost death a second time over. If Kalya’s mother, dead forty years, had done the same, Kalya never would have forgiven her. 

He was not unattractive to look at, the old Steward. Well, not so old. Not that much older than she, surely, for his son was of an age with hers. Though his hair was all grey, there was a spark of life in him yet. He had the look of a man who had received more from life than they had ever expected, and knew not what to do with it. Like a man who had been born wearing armor, but wore it no longer. He fascinated her, more than she cared to admit. 

The calculating part of her considered what a relationship between they two could mean long before her heart did. She would sell neither of her children to the alliance, as her colleagues from other nations surely would. She had promised each that they would have their choice of partner, and she would not break that promise now or ever. But with young Steward Faramir and the lady-soldier Éowyn of Rohan making eyes at each other day and night, and the Easterling alliances with dwarves and elves reopened, soon she and the Haradic nations would be the only ones without blood ties to one of their allies, and Harad would happily sell their children. Kalya could not have that. Not least because Harad had already so much more cultural mixing with Gondor than her own people did. They would have far less difficulty protecting their part in the alliance than she would. But a marriage with the old steward? Even though he was no longer in power, his son marrying into Rohan and his son who was said to be a friend to the king would surely not wish to see their father attacked. And what need had she for love? She had already tasted it once. This foreign man could not give her that which she had lost. 

Her heart first beat at him as she watched him with his son. How often had she done the same with her own children? And that look of old grief on his face at the mention of her lost husband. He must have been a widower, for who else could understand that old grief. She could see the look on his face that matched the claws digging at her heart. Reaching out to him was as much instinct as it was intent. He needed to comfort, and she was the only one who knew how much. 

It was only logical, after this moment of connection, to find herself in the library. She spoke four languages, and read two kinds of characters. Learning to speak westron simply could not be that hard. She brought papers of her own, and copied down the translation charts she found on the table. The westron pronunciations were occasionally difficult to copy down in Khandi, but someone would have to do it, and so she did. 

When Denethor came up behind her, she bit her tongue to keep from saying ‘fancy seeing you here’. He would not have understood the joke in her tongue, and she had no way of knowing if that use of ‘fancy’ translated at all. 

She thought he would kick her out of the library, or at the very least leave her alone, but he did not. Instead he payed attention, as much to learning her tongue as she gave to learning his, and it made something in her heart skip. She could not fear any man whose love for learning was a match of her own. For all that she had grown to love him, her love for Tanlir had never been one of the mind. Their connection had been political, then sexual, and romantic, a connection that had given them children and a stable government and a thousand other things, but he had never shared her curiosity, her fascination with all the world. Denethor seemed as though he might.

They kept meeting. Of course, they were in close quarters under tense circumstances, but it still felt odd. She saw Denethor more than she saw Faramir or King Elessar. In every parley, at every dinner, walking the corridors, they were together. She had picked up a handful of words in his tongue, and he the same in hers, but simply through sheer force of need, they learned to communicate. They found ways to joke in as many words, or with no words at all. Sometimes, they would spread the translation sheets before them, and try to speak of greater things. She told him of losing Tanlir to the plague, of carrying on as mother and queen, despite being unprepared to bear either burden without him. He confessed to her that as a parent, he had failed his sons, and that he feared nothing more than losing them forever. Her gambit with Maedhros had paid for the freedom of her people with the life of her brother, his fear of Sauron had almost cost him both of his sons. 

It was not a surprise to either of them when, one evening, as they walked the halls in silent company, she pressed him up against the nearest wall, and kissed him until their lips were swollen. He wrapped his hands around her, and sucked bruises just below the neckline of her dress, and the heady passion made her feel like a girl again.

Later that night, long after she’d taken him to her chambers, dismissing the guards and locking the door, she said to him, “how do you feel about political marriages?”

“Politics marriage?” He asked. “Your meaning, land money?”

“Treaty,” she said in Westron. “Allies.”

Denethor seemed to consider for a second. “Us?”

“Not children.”

“Us? Not children.” 

When he said it in her tongue, she knew it was wrong. “Not our children.”

Denethor nodded against her breast. “Not our children. Us?”

Kalya reached up to stroke her hand down his spine. “If you want.”

“Why?”

There were so many answers to that. Kalya thought carefully, and said, in her best Westron. “Many causes. Treaty. Allies. I am lonely. Queen does not rule alone, needs brother or sister or husband or wife or child. Want children to inherit, but not yet. Not ready. You have heirs, I have heirs, no more children.”

“Is that all?”

Kalya switched back to say, “well, you are not bad to look at either.”

Denethor laughed, wryly. “You are not being either.”

“So?”

“So?”

“Marriage.”

Denethor pressed a kiss to her skin. “Later.”

Well, that was not helpful. “Later?”

He seemed uncomfortable, and retreated into his own tongue, speaking too fast, with too many figures of speech. He must have realized her confusion though, for a second later, he said simply, “my sons need me now, my Queen.”

Kalya reached down, and pulled the sheets up over them.

She met Boromir the next day, rather by surprise. A mortified and meek Canadiel came knocking, with a message for Lord Denethor. Kalya received her in the sitting room, wearing nothing but a robe. 

“My lady, Lord Denethor is to go to the gates, quick as he can. There is an envoy from Lóthlorien, I think.”

“How did you know to find him here?” Being revealed would be poor for them both, strategically.

“Halon mentioned it to me in passing, having heard it from a messenger who was going to tell Ambassador Haldir. I knew you would want to know.”

Canadiel was a blessing. She was nobility by birth, having grown up with Kalya’s own children before joining the army, as was only appropriate for a fourth child. It was always a relief to have someone in the guard who was loyal to you beyond your station, as Canadiel was. 

She followed Denethor down the city, slowly, so as not to seem like they were together. Whoever the envoy was, they were important, and so she took the time to wear her jewels, to pin her hair up, and to wear impractical layers. By the time she made it down to the gate, Denethor was holding one of the visitors tight to his chest, and the boy was weeping, though he tried to conceal it. The other visitor was standing with Ambassador Haldir, and they were so close in looks that they only could have been brothers. King Elessar and Lord Faramir were standing awkwardly, close by, and they both looked up when Kalya approached. Elessar inclined his head. Faramir bowed. This was the first time any of them had seen her properly presented as a queen. The Queen at war was not the same as the Queen at peace, and her presentation was different. 

“My Queen,” Denethor said, in her own tongue. Kalya nodded in acknowledgement of his words. 

“Is this your son?” She asked him. 

Denethor smiled at her. “Boromir, meet the Queen of the Variags of Khand.”

Boromir walked with a cane, and it seemed to cause him some discomfort to bow before her, but he did so anyways. He had much of his father’s look, and even more of his spirit. In some respects, he reminded her of her own son, but more exhausted and broken. 

In her own tongue, she said to Denethor, hoping he would understand, “this one needs your care and unconditional love. Now more so than ever. Be careful.”

Denethor replied in kind. “I will.”

Kalya was going to hold him to that. For his sake and the boy’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re responsible. You know who you are. 
> 
> Marred, next week. I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking with this fic as usual and I love you all.


End file.
